


The Master At Arms

by WonderWomanForEver



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Crusades, F/M, Hurt, Inner Dialogue, Mild Sexual Content, Swearing, eleanor of aquitane - Freeform, king henry ii - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:00:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29382432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderWomanForEver/pseuds/WonderWomanForEver
Relationships: Djaq & Will Scarlett, Djaq/Will Scarlett, Eve/Much the Miller's Son, Guy of Gisborne/Marian of Knighton, Isabella of Gisborne/Robin of Locksley
Comments: 12
Kudos: 6





	The Master At Arms

**There's an introduction coming as well!**

**••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••**

_Current Song Lyrics: Arsonist's Lullabye by Hozier_

_When I was a child, I heard voices_   
_Some would sing and some would scream_   
_You soon find you have few choices_   
_I learned the voices died with me_

_When I was a child, I'd sit for hours_   
_Staring into open flame_   
_Something in it had a power_   
_Could barely tear my eyes away_

**_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_ **

He expected it. Even though he did not desire it, even if he wholeheartedly wished against it and renounced it from his mind every single day, he expected it. Since no message of death had ever been sent, the actual owner of the roof he was living under would return, with a commendable leave and scarred forever. The official, indisputable, and sole Sire of the house that once belonged to him. He was still unable to grasp that thought, that his ancestral village and all its foundations were called Locksley, as if that's how it always had been, as if he was but a stranger, an ambitious French knight who had come to conquer hearts and minds with flames and swords, as a darned delinquent, a vagabond, not a noble with an incontrovertible and solemn right...

He hermetically sealed his eyes closed for the umpteenth time on that morning which had started quietly, plainly and had felt like a placid, uneventful one. Even if he had eschewed to admit it, he adored tranquility, basked on the silence and the balminess of indolence, yearned for a languorous evening, like the ones of the peasants he administered, an eventide when he wouldn't be patrolling or supervising a shift change of the guards while bellowing orders. A dusk when his mind would be his and his thoughts could travel wherever his bleak soul desired.

He could see it clearly every day, written all over the incredibly supercilious, provocative faces of the servants with whom he resided on Locksley Manor. He was indifferent to their contempt, ignored their disgust and disregarded their snide comments. However, he could never condone those looks that screamed in unison; _you're naught but a visitor here, a propitiously volatile guest, a parasite that shall soon disappear, because when our true Master returns, you will go back to the black hole of Hell from which you emerged._

They hated him. They detested serving him and their sullenness induced a constant malaise on the wooden residence, a perpetual spirit of mischance and bad luck, as if they wished behind his back for perennial failures, hitches, and disappointments. He hated them as well. But he didn't care. His sojourn was indeed temporary. Ever since he had returned, his intentions were swivelled to another, distant and totally different house, where he was determined to enter and settle come what may. Therefore, he didn't need them, he just tolerated them, as they did with him.

Nonetheless, that silence consumed and devoured him, that malaise affected him subconsciously, their alienation and desolation allowed him to peek at his internal void, which was a thousand times worse than the external one, full of darkness, distress and macabre memories, so he was overwhelmed with animosity. That's how he was taught; to convert his agony and disarray into rancor, rage, and violence. Just as he was instructed to kill every sign of beauty, amenity, warmth and emotional need inside him, he had learned to modify every farrago of sensations to an incessant excretion of fury, anger and vehemence. God have mercy to the unfortunate ones who were rendered his victims and addressees of his dismal momentum.

It had been a wonderful, marvelous, beautiful morning. Spring had finally arrived and winter seemed like a bygone anamnesis. The view of the clear blue sky and the warm sun perfectly contrasted the restless night he had passed. He hadn't slept at all, hadn't closed his eyes for a single moment, as he kept staring at the fire burning in the hearth of his frugal chamber. When he slept, nightmares of a tenebrous, tarnished, scarred past would regularly haunt him. Whilst, when he sat up all night in front of the carmine fire, they were revived right in front of him vividly, as picturesque and detailed as if he'd been experiencing them all over again and again, along with all the anguish they bore, which remained unforgettable no matter how many years had passed, always the same, intense and unbearable, tenacious feeling. That was his personal punishment, the sanction he enforced on himself every time he'd commit a crime, a sin or a trespass. There was nobody else to do that for him; no father, mother, sister or a wife. And God played deaf, never listening to his earnest prayers. Even He had forsaken him.

His eyes burned from sleeplessness, welled over with tears and he blinked frantically, in order to make them disappear, those false traces of a nondescript weakness of his. A man like him must never look weak neither in front of his superiors nor his inferiors, those damned bloody churls, with whom he coexisted and had to rule. In those few, rarest times, when feelings would ensconce themselves in his cold, sombre heart, he always made sure to be alone and suffer away from the eyes of strangers.

He hadn't even spared time to break his fast. He had simply girded his arms rapidly and departed, on the back of his ebony destrier that matched his coal black leather raiment perfectly, along with his raven hair that fell upon his temples and forehead incoherently, yet the morning air pushed back as he rode with pride, vanity and hauteur. The only colourful element of the black, dingy ensemble of man and horse was firstly the yellow chiton that extruded from his leather overcoat over his neckline. The choice of color wasn't random; it served as homage to his nonexistent House and noble, landless name. Apart from that, there were his eyes, his deep blue and grey irises, which were trained to always remain icy towards any sight, though there was one where they couldn't resist and he still couldn't admit it. That morning, his bright irises were surrounded by tiny, scarlet, broken blood vessels, like pools of blood, accordingly resembling his soul; a stark, ceaselessly decadent tatter.

The road to Nottingham Castle felt shorter than usual, for his mind was completely empty. That's what he truly enjoyed after a sleepless night; this numbness and evanescent anaesthesia which overcame him. He felt stagnant, deadened, and invulnerable, since his entire existence was pulverised. After passing the flinty archway of the gates and the wooden moat bridge, he finally reached the Castle of Nottingham.

At the courtyard, except for a handful of servants and guards who aimlessly walked around, there was his superior waiting, his Master At Arms, De Fortnoy, with his hands crossed upon his chest sternly and his eyes fixed with mockery, derision, and repugnance.

"You're late," he barked instead of a salutation.

"Whacker," he openly defied him. "It's not even been two hours since sunrise."

"Your orders are explicit; you must be here every morning at dawn."

"My orders require to be here when the Sheriff wakes up. He does so at least three hours after dawn, hence-"

"Well, today, he's already awaken and in a severely bad spirits, that is," his Master pointed out and his lowered his blue eyes in shame and abjection. "For as long as you were absent, he has broken out his anger on some servants. Thankfully for us, they managed to get away with only some bruises and replacements do not need to be sought."

He wanted to expire with relief for having missed a terrible and absurd battery in absentia yet he contained himself, raising his head again, staring straight at De Fortnoy's eyes fearlessly. He would not give him the slightest excuse to abase or ridicule him ever.

"Where is he now?" He demanded to know in a flat, colourless voice, even though his baritone hue already possessed a sense of dread.

"He's in the Great Hall, although I would suggest you approach him cautiously. He's breaking his fast and he may utilise some dishes or viands to fire against you."

Whilst he was prepared to refute his raillery, a patrol guard arrived, panting breathlessly, of actually green boys full of terror and haste.

"What's the matter?" They both simultaneously wondered, utterly forgetting their mutual abhorrence and enmity.

"Today, as you asked, sir, we went to the market for the monthly inventory," the man closer to the Master At Arms explained. "The baker proclaimed ten sacks of flour had been stolen by him. In addition, he sweared he knew those hungry louts who took them from Locksley. Eye witnesses confirmed it, apparently they're known pilferers."

"Those responsible must be arrested and punished accordingly!" De Fortnoy shouted furiously and turned to his black clad Lieutenant. "Go to Locksley with them, find them and bring them here. As soon as the Sheriff takes over them, they shall curse the very moment they envied that flour, which honest people trade. For God's sake, how did the state of Good King Richard degenerate so? His Majesty shall return to a wreck, a den of thieves!"

Of course, he immediately understood that his commander did not mean a single word of his royal praise. Yet, just hearing the name of their sovereign, the black knight spat on the ground with scorn and gall. The men present thought he was just deriding the offender peasants but in truth he did not give a damn. It was Richard, however, the so-called _Lionheart,_ that he loathed with his entire heart and soul, more than De Fortnoy, more than all those relatives who had turned their backs on him, condemning him to poverty, even more than his monstrous, hideous self. The reason of this aversion was hidden deep into his nefarious past.

"And who is that?"

De Fortnoy's demand shook him out of his thoughts forcefully, as a welcome distraction from the abyss whereinto he risked to sink again.

The Master At Arms was pointing with his index finger at an auburn haired young man, with vigorous eyes, full of cunning, deceit and slyness, who was bound and gagged by the guards and dragged there.

"We caught him in the forest," the soldier who held his rope answered. "Poaching."

"So what? The penalty is well known; just cut one of his hands," De Fortnoy wished to dismiss the subject and the black knight seized the opportunity which was given to him quite abruptly.

"I'll take care of him!" He affirmed, gripping the poacher's shoulders and the soldier who held him let the rope roll to the soil. Though he was met with some resistance, it was all in vain. His steel hold had completely trapped him.

"You have a flour case to investigate in Locksley!" His commander reminded him austerely.

"It can wait," he immediately retorted, pushing the prisoner inside the castle, directed to the dungeons. He gave them a dark smirk, which made the soldiers' blood freeze. "The Sheriff's humour is a priority and it shall definitely improve, once he hears the screams of this aspirant hunter. Would you prefer to delay gaining back some flour or investing in our Lord's tranquility?"

**••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••**

Upon seeing him entering the dungeons with a petrified prisoner, the jailer took his leave discretely, letting him work freely and unbothered. He wasn't so foolish as to mingle with the actions of the Sheriff's inner circle.

Without losing time or at least a moment to contemplate the look of trepidation and disdain the ugly oldster had given him, the fallen knight tied the young man to the chains of the wall at the darkest cell, cutting the ropes that previously held him and throwing away the rag bound around his mouth. Soon, his outcries would resonate in the whole Castle, a lurid and mirk music to his ears, similar to the one of his nightmares, and with some luck so it would be for the Sheriff.

He took a torch from the dungeon's door and placed it next to them, in order to be able to observe his face reactions better. The youngster eyed him with defiance, determination and confidence. Obviously, he thought he'd endure. And when he smirked at him, almost chuckling jeeringly, he was resolved to erase this extremely irritating, smug look off his face, calling forth his virtuosity at torture.

"What's your name, tall and fearful underling?" He openly provoked him and his blood boiled.

"I'm the inquisitioner here!" He growled and rewarded his audacity with a blow, using the back of his hand. Though the buckles of his gloves annoyed him insufferably, when he tortured one, he felt like they were the greatest jewel of his armour. "So, what's _your_ name?"

He felt exceedingly pleased, when he saw his torn lip and two identical scratches on the cheek he had hit. He didn't resist the abominably dark smirk that rose up to his lips. He enjoyed the sight of blood that he himself had caused. Besides, he knew perfectly well that the sadism which laced this particular expression of his was sometimes enough to break a prisoner right away.

"Allan," the young knave replied, through gritted teeth.

"Allan what?" He pressed on, apparently aggravated with his idleness. In such a slow pace, the questioning would last days. Therefore, he decided to accelerate things, brandishing an aquiline dagger from his belt, like a vulture's nail, and brought it to his neck, so that the steel blade was hugging it icily, as if it was the touch of Death.

The youngster's courage broke, as he recognised the deathly threat on not only the weapon but also the eyes of his tormentor, which only showed cold indifference, calmness and a deranged amusement.

"I'm not being funny, mate, but in this town you're all bloodthirsty lunatics!"

"Will you tell me now why you were hunting in the King's forest or shall I stain your already filthy clothes with blood straight from your neck?" He threatened him entirely candid, seething with rage. He had hoped torture would beat his sleepiness but nothing was achieved after all.

"I said the same thing to your soldiers. I've got a family to feed, my wife is heavy with child and I'm desperate! I had no choice but to-"

"Shut the fuck up!" He ordered and Allan was silenced at once, waiting for his next move. The hand holding the knife to his neck remained perfectly still, though his mind was racing. Momentarily, his dreadful, brutish expression wavered, as he weighed on his possible decisions.

On the one hand, he could easily finish him off. That would be comfortable for him and amusing for the Sheriff, who would make sure to put his body on spikes as a public sight on the Castle's gates, a grand example for future aspiring rebels to his cruel regime. On the other hand, if he didn't mean to deceive him and he did have a wife and a pending child, his _conscience,_ this damned thing that visited him on the worst and most unsuitable moments, screamed at him deafeningly that it'd haunt him as a nightmare and he'd carry that pity on his shoulders, along with so many others that already seemed overwhelming. Much less now, when he found himself in a similar situation...

He planted the dagger on the stone wall, grazing his arm superficially. Allan cried out, more surprised than hurt, though he didn't care. He'd taken the scream he wished for, and his Master had surely rejoiced upon hearing it. As he hid the deadly weapon back to his belt, the prisoner examined the wound with his eyes and reassured himself it wasn't severe.

He retreated, backing away nervously and exited the cell, locking Allan inside thrice, certain he'd not escape.

"Let's see whether you speak the truth, if your wife comes seeking you," he whispered steely. "Your final fate, after all, shall be decided by the Sheriff."

He walked away, holding his nose with disgust. Allan, in all his fright or relief for gaining a few more hours of life, had pissed himself and the stench was excruciating.

**••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••**

He rode back to Locksley, escorted by ten of his personal guards, upraising small mountains of dust as he passed, resembling an ethereal creature, an anarchic demon straight out of Hell or one of the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. At the same time, the rest of active soldiers bearing his coat of arms were summoned as well, to help drive the peasants out of their homes and brought together at the centre of the village. They would search each house thoroughly until they found the missing sacks; the owners of those houses would be arrested instantly. The work would be swiftly done, resolutely and effectively and he would soon return to the Castle triumphant and successful, to demonstrate another glorious feat to De Fortnoy, which would surely gain praise from the Sheriff.

As the soldiers stormed the houses and searched vehemently, throwing people out regardless of age as if they were the sacks, he addressed the converged crowd with his most deadly, bone chilling smirk and as much menace as he could muster in his naturally deep voice. Every phrase was followed by a short pause for emphasis.

"Ten sacks of flour have gone missing from the store. They will be found." He raised his gloved right hand up to the spot if his heart, audaciously hectoring them with his lacerated buckles. "They'll be accounted for."

His eyes shone with a wrath barely contained and their bloody, sleepless look only enhanced his redoubtable, imposing figure.

His soldiers drugged forth and threw in front of his horse's feet two of the missing sacks and a young boy, scarcely older than an adolescent. The rest were gathering around him nonchalantly, like bees around a hive.

"No more, sir," his sergeant informed him on the obvious.

He suppressed his anger from a certain eruption. He couldn't but inwardly wonder why those shameful rubes had to create hurdles on the simplest and most logical occasions all the time. He extended his index finger to them assertively, gritting his teeth with impatience.

"Who helped this..." Out of respect for the present women, he didn't come out with the vituperation that arose in his mind. "This runt?"

Silence. His enervation dramatically increased.

"Step forward now; I may show lenience."

The silence lingered. He interwined his fingers and puffed, now entirely indignant. Locksley was his, granted to him by the Sheriff with an official document four winters prior. He was obliged to rule over those crude bumpkins and still not conformed them. Even if he oppressed, exacted and drained them to their last penny, obeying his superiors' orders faithfully, they remained obstinately, outrageously defiant. Those ungrateful tikes, they didn't appreciate anything, they mocked him and -thought it'd been five whole years- they kept emblazoning their former Lord, who had abandoned them to fight in deplorable Richard's daft Crusade!

"No?" He continued, feeling he was soliloquising in a hollow clump. "The remaining perpetrators will be found. This crime will be punished," he concluded, his entire self malting internally, and turned to his men. "Bring the boy."

"Wait!" Sounded an unknown, authoritative voice, seemingly prestigious.

Automatically, every look was directed to its source and the black knight didn't need a single moment to recognize him, even though numerous years and countless lives had passed since their last encounter. Back then, they were only unripe boys and he had hoped they'd never meet again. He froze, just staring at him with a stony facial expression, unmoving and silent, curious about how he'd treat him, given their traumatised past and the mutual hostility that bound them.

"Guy of Gisborne?" The unknown yet known man asked, the phantom that hovered around everyone and everything in the village, along with the hearts and minds of the people. He had even felt him lurking in the air, haunting his every thought and deed as an imaginary shadow. Now, he was walking towards him with his characteristic, arrogant stance, scrutinizing him with his puissant eyes.

" _Sir_ Guy of Gisborne to you!" One of his soldiers shouted imperatively and he was relieved for avoiding conversation. "And bow before your Master!"

" _Sir_ Guy of Gisborne," the sunburnt man mimicked him, quite fitting the image of the spoiled, pampered brat. He stood in front of his destrier with authority and innate vanity. "My name is Robin, Earl of Huntington and Lord of this Manor. And your services here are no longer required."

He stood there, staring at him with his stormy blue eyes, benumbed, unable to utter a single word. His fingers tightened around the reins of his horse and his entire body trembled weakly, as his brain recalled memories once lost and deeply buried.

Then, some servant of his, revealed a furry surcoat, a symbol of his House and noble birth, and draped it over Robin's shoulders with an almost sacred reverence and adulation. Watching this, every peasant present bowed to the Lord of Locksley in awe and sanctimonious respect, without minding their overlord's for four winters attendance and apparent dander.

He was publicly abased by that scapegrace. It wasn't the first time it happened, although he'd make sure it'd be the last. He didn't react, just watched passively, examining every look and act with undivided attention, in spite of his memory backdated to the flagitious, bleak, scarred past. Mixed, incoherent pictures flooded his memory, which brought the same crimson violet throe. A flaming wheel, a torch, a successive betrayal and the fire. The Fire. It wasn't him.

It wasn't him. No, it wasn't his fault, he hadn't dipped his hands in blood so early! That sixteen year old boy was innocent, callow, and reckless, he hadn't recognised the peril and paid the price pitiably.

But is _was_ his fault. Of course it was. He was to blame for everything, for all the catastrophe and ruination that had followed, for all the degradation and humiliation which had befallen upon his family and name.

Guy of Gisborne, a knight only in name anymore, looked straight at Robin of Locksley's eyes, hiding the wounded boy that nestled into his cold heart and gave him an oblique nod, acknowledging his presence at last. He seemed invulnerable, majestic, mighty, while inwardly he quivered and doddered, lamenting his fully devitalised, rotten beyond salvation joy.

"Welcome," he aridly stated. "Allow me to escort you back to the Manor."

**••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••**

**That's all for now, fellas!**

**That wraps up the first chapter of my first Robin Hood fanfiction. I'm beyond excited though I'd live to hear your own thoughts. How did you like it? Does Guy seem in character or OOC? Any constructive criticism would be more than welcome and appreciated!!**

**Nevertheless, thank you from the depths of my heart from reading this! I promise we're going to see more of Allan PLUS lovely Marian, the Sheriff and some council of Nobles!**


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